by Lisa Gardner
I didn’t know what to say. I had never before had a minister come to me with a matter of faith. In the next moment, however, it became clear that Charlie Marvin was not looking for my opinion. He had already formed his own.
“It has become my obsession,” he stated. “This grave at Boston State Mental, the souls of those poor girls. Where I have failed once, it is my duty not to fail again. I would like to outreach to the families, but they have not been identified yet. Except for you. So here I am.”
I frowned, still uncertain. “I don’t understand. What do you want?”
“I’m not here to demand, sweet child. I’m here for you to talk. About anything and everything you’d like. Come, have a seat. It’s cold, it’s late, you’ve come to the park instead of finding your warm, cozy bed. Clearly, you have something on your mind.”
Charlie gestured to a waiting bench, then headed toward it. I followed reluctantly, not one for talking, and yet, oddly, hating for this meeting to end. Bella was happy. And I’d felt something unfurl inside of me in the presence of such a warm, easygoing man. Charlie Marvin did know the worst about humanity. If he could still find a reason to smile, then maybe so could I.
“All right,” he said briskly, when he arrived at the bench and discovered I hadn’t bolted yet. “Let’s start with the basics.” He thrust out his hand. “Good evening, my name is Charlie Marvin, I’m a minister, and it’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I played along. “Good evening. My name is Annabelle, I do custom window treatments, and it’s a pleasure to meet you, too.”
We shook. I noted that Charlie showed no reaction to my name, and why should he? But I felt giddy at having spoken my real name in public after twenty-five years.
Charlie took a seat. I followed suit. The hour was late, the park wet and deserted, so I unhooked Bella from her leash. She leapt up with grateful kisses, then was off racing along the trellis.
“So, if you don’t mind me saying,” Charlie was commenting, “you don’t exactly sound as if you’re from Boston.”
“My family moved a lot when I was growing up. But I consider Boston home. Yourself?”
“Grew up in Worcester. Still can’t say my R’s.”
That made me laugh. “So you’re a local boy. Wife, kids, dogs?”
“Had a wife. Tried for kids. Wasn’t in God’s plans. Then my wife got ovarian cancer. She passed away … oh, it’s been a good twelve years now. We had a small house up in Rockport. I sold it, returned to the city. Saves me the commute—it’s possible that I’m no longer the best guy behind a wheel of a car. My brain is fine. My hands, however, are a little slow to do what they’re told.”
“And you work with the homeless?”
“Yes, ma’am. I volunteer my time over at Pine Street. Help out with the shelter and the soup kitchen. Plus, I believe strongly in fieldwork. The homeless can’t always find it in them to come to you, you gotta go to them.”
I was genuinely curious. “So you come to places like this and, what? Preach? Buy soup? Hand out pamphlets?”
“Mostly, I listen.”
“Really?”
“Really.” He nodded vigorously. “You think the homeless don’t get lonely? Sure they do. Even the mentally disadvantaged, the economically forsaken have a basic need for human connection. So I sit with them. I let them tell me about their lives. Or sometimes we don’t say anything at all. And that can be just as nice.”
“Does it work? Have you ‘saved’ anyone?”
“I’ve saved myself, Annabelle. Isn’t that good enough?”
“I’m sorry, I meant—”
He waved away my embarrassment. “I know what you meant, dear. I’m just yanking your chain.”
I blushed. It seemed to amuse him more. But then he leaned forward, his tone growing serious.
“No, I can’t say that I’ve magically turned someone’s life around. Which is a damn shame, given that the average age of a homeless person is twenty-four.” He saw my surprised look, and nodded. “Yes, it’s sobering to think about, isn’t it? And nearly half of all the homeless are mentally ill. To be honest, these folks aren’t the kind who are going to turn their lives around after getting a free shower and a cup of soup. They need help, they need guidance, and most, in my humble opinion, would benefit from at least a brief stint in a therapeutic environment. None of which is going to happen to them any time soon.”
“You’re a nice man, Charlie Marvin.”
He playfully clutched at his chest. “Oh, be still, my beating heart. I’m too old to be receiving such high praise from a pretty face. Be careful, or my wife’s spirit will come back to chastise us both. She always was a hellion.”
That made me laugh, which seemed to make him happy. Bella returned to check on our progress. Seeing we had accomplished nothing, she flopped down at my feet, sighed heavily, and put her head down. For a while, the three of us sat there, gazing at the moon, listening to the water, feeling the peace of the silence.
Of course, I was the one who broke it first.
“Do you know who did it?” I asked, no reason to define “it.”
Charlie took his time with his answer. “I’m afraid I know who did this terrible thing,” he said at last. “Meaning, when the police figure it all out, the name will be someone I knew from the hospital.”
“You mentioned a couple of likely suspects. This Adam Schmidt. Christopher Eola.”
“So you were eavesdropping.”
“I have an interest,” I said levelly.
He winked at me. “I’m not criticizing, child. In your shoes, I would’ve eavesdropped, too.”
“Between the two, who do you think is most likely?”
“Not knowing any details of the crime?”
“None of us know many details of the crime,” I said, in answer to his underlying question.
“Christopher Eola,” he said promptly. “You’d have to be depraved but calculating to kidnap and murder six girls. Adam was a sleaze, don’t get me wrong. But he was too lazy for this kind of crime. Christopher, on the other hand … He would savor the challenge.”
“Do you know where he is now?”
“Well …” Charlie started, then stopped.
“Well?” I prodded.
“I got to thinking about it more after talking with Detective Dodge and Sergeant Warren.…”
“Yes?”
“Well, the more I thought about Christopher, the more I thought it had to be him. So I called a buddy of mine at Bridgewater. He’d never even heard Eola’s name—bad sign right there, if you know what I mean. But he did some digging, and sure enough, Eola was released in ’78. Meaning Christopher’s had all sorts of time on his hands, yet none of us have heard from him. Makes me nervous.”
“You don’t think he magically got a job, assimilated into society, became a model citizen?”
Charlie contemplated my question. “Do you consider Ted Bundy was a model citizen? Because if you do, then maybe Christopher has a chance.”
“That bad?”
“Man had no morals. No empathy with his fellow human beings. For a guy like that, the whole world is a system meant to be played. And what Christopher Eola enjoyed playing most was outwitting others in order to indulge his very private, very violent fantasies.”
I considered Charlie’s words. “If that’s the case, how do you think he’s made it nearly thirty years without coming to police attention?”
“I don’t know.”
“But you must have some ideas.”
Charlie stroked Bella’s head, considering. “Eola came from money, so maybe he’s tapped into those resources. A little bit of money can cover a lot of messy tracks.”
“True.”
“And he’s smart, which helps. Mostly, however, I think he relies on his appearance.”
“You described him to the detectives as effeminate.”
“Yes, ma’am. He’s strong, though—all muscle and sinew, that one. But he appears—appeared, I guess, when I knew
him—quite aristocratic. For some reason, no one ever suspects the cultured academic.”
“Academic?” I heard myself say.
“It’s not like he actually had a degree or anything. But it was an image he cultivated. Several of our female nurses actually thought he was a Ph.D. until we broke the news he’d never even gone to college.”
“What kind of degree did he pretend to have?”
Charlie pursed his lips. “Oooh, that’s a long time ago. A degree in history? Master of fine arts? Maybe it was literature. I don’t remember now. Just that he led some people to believe he taught courses at MIT. I don’t know why. I would’ve guessed him a Harvard man myself.”
Charlie flashed his friendly grin, but I was no longer smiling. Something niggled at me. Too many coincidences.
“Do you have a picture of Christopher?” I asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“But there should be something on file. A yearbook? A mug shot? Something.”
“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. Maybe Bridgewater took a photo.”
I nodded slowly. Foot starting to tap in agitation. If Eola was loose in ’78 … Still exiled from his family, with no place to go …
Would someone like that drift out to Arlington? Maybe make himself at home in the attic of a little old lady? And given that he had money, if the target of his interest disappeared, would he be inclined to run, too? Maybe the Boston police had never known about Christopher Eola for the same reason they didn’t get to know about me. Because we both vanished and spent the next twenty-five years on the road.
The hour was growing late. Lost in my own thoughts, I hadn’t realized that Charlie was already standing, ready to go. Belatedly, I rose, then dug in my purse until I found one of my cards.
“If you think of anything else,” I told him, “I would appreciate any help you have to give.”
“Oh, not a problem. Pleasure’s all mine.” He glanced at my card, frowned, and asked, “Tanya?”
“My middle name. I use it for business. You know, a girl can never be too careful.”
We shook hands one last time. Charlie headed off toward Faneuil Hall. Bella and I headed for the North End.
Right at the edge of the park, as I was set to cross Atlantic Avenue, something made me turn around. I spotted Charlie, under the trellis now, studying Bella and me intently. An aging gentleman making sure I made it home okay. Or something else?
He saw me staring, raised a hand in acknowledgment, smiled softly, then turned on his heel.
I started running with Bella then, under the streetlights, on the main streets, with my Taser in my hand and my demons chasing me once more.
Bobby sat thirty feet off the ground, cradled in the bare branches of an enormous oak tree. He wore black BDUs, topped with soft body armor. A pair of night-vision goggles rested on his forehead. A Sig Sauer 3000 rifle, outfitted with a Leupold 3-9X 50mm variable scope and loaded with Federal Match Grade .308 Remington 168 grain slugs, was in his arms.
He should be thinking of the good old days. When he’d been able to run faster than a speeding bullet and leap tall buildings in a single bound. When he’d been the best of the best, the baddest of the bad. When he’d had a mission, a team, and a sense of purpose.
Mostly, he wanted to wring D.D.’s neck.
The note on D.D.’s car had contained explicit instructions. At 3:33 a.m., the locket should be delivered to the former site of Boston State Mental, outside the ruins of the admin building. D.D. was to bring the locket herself. She should wear it around her neck. She should come alone.
Bobby might be a rookie detective, but he’d served on a tactical unit for seven years. He understood strategy, was comfortable with special ops.
D.D. read the note and saw an opportunity. He read the note and saw bait.
Why D.D.? Why alone? Why, if the whole point was to return the necklace, should she be wearing the locket around her neck?
Then there was the site itself. One hundred and seventy acres of woods. Two crumbling ruins, one construction site, and one subterranean crime scene. There weren’t enough SWAT teams in New England to secure that much real estate, particularly in such a tight time frame.
D.D. had countered that there were only two access roads onto the property, not hard to monitor. Bobby had pointed out that while there were only two legal entrances/exits to the site, the locals had been digging under the fences, cutting holes, and running amok across the grounds for decades. The site was Swiss cheese, boundaries compromised and fencing worthless.
They needed tactical units. His former team, for one, which would bring thirty-two men to the party. He’d even consider working with the city’s SWAT team, as long as they promised not to touch his gun. Bodies were bodies, training was training, and truthfully, the Boston guys were pretty good, even if the state guys didn’t like to say such things out loud.
He’d also like choppers, dogs, and night-vision security cameras deployed at strategic intervals.
D.D., of course, had decided to deploy one man on-site: him. The rest would form a discreet perimeter, ready to close in around the subject the moment he appeared. Too many bodies might scare the subject away. Ditto with air support. Security cameras weren’t a bad idea, but they didn’t have the time to get something that sophisticated in place.
Instead, she’d gone with the basics: Bomb-sniffing dogs had made the rounds three hours ago while two dozen officers combed the woods in the immediate vicinity. Then tech support had hastily installed sensors that shot infrared beams of light from point to point, forming a perimeter around the designated meeting area. First time a beam was broken, the signal would be sent to Central Command, providing Bobby and D.D. with advance warning of the subject’s approach.
D.D. was wired beneath her boron-plated Kevlar vest. She wore an earpiece to receive, with the transmitter built into her vest. This enabled her to communicate with him as well as with Command Central, deployed in a van across the street at the cemetery.
D.D. was a fool. A stubborn, pigheaded, tunnel-visioned sergeant who honestly thought she could save the world in a single evening.
Bobby didn’t think it was a matter of ambition. He thought, more frighteningly, that D.D. was curious.
She believed the subject would show. And when he did, she hoped to determine if the man was Christopher Eola or Annabelle’s long-lost father. Then she would keep the child killer so occupied with her dazzling beauty and witty repartee, he wouldn’t think to abduct another little girl. In fact, he’d tell D.D. everything she needed to know, right before the task force descended and led him away in metal bracelets.
D.D. was a fool. A stubborn, pigheaded, tunnel-visioned …
Bobby leaned down. Adjusted his Leupold scope. Did his best to block out the sound of the wind, rustling through the skeletal trees.
His hands didn’t shake. He was grateful for that much.
After the shooting, in that moment when he was still seeing Jimmy Gagnon’s head snap back, blood and brain exploding from the skull, Bobby hadn’t been sure he’d ever be comfortable with guns again. Hadn’t been sure he’d want to be comfortable with guns again.
He’d never been a gun guy. Hadn’t fired his first rifle until he’d attended the police academy. There, he’d made the discovery that he was quite good. With a bit of training, he scored expert. With a bit of nudging, he became a sniper. But it had never been true love. The rifle was not an extension of his arm, a calling of his soul. It was a tool he happened to be extremely skilled at using.
Three days after shooting Jimmy Gagnon, he’d gone to an indoor firing range and picked up a handgun. The first clip had been terrible. The second clip, not so bad. He told himself he was a plumber, reacquainting himself with his trade. As long as he kept that perspective, he was good to go.
The wind blew again, carrying a spray of wet drizzle. Made the tree branches shift around him. He thought he heard another low-pitched whine. Reminded himself again that he did not believe
in ghosts, not even at the site of a former mental institute.
Goddamn D.D.
His watch glowed 3:21 a.m. Twelve minutes and counting. He lowered the NVGs over his eyes and located his headstrong friend.
D.D. paced in front of the crumbling brick ruins of the old building. Her normally slender silhouette appeared bulky and misshapen—the effects of the Kevlar vest. Given the weather, she wore a bright yellow rain jacket over her usual crisp white shirt. No hat, which would limit visibility. No umbrella, which would tie up her hands.
Now she turned, walking back toward him, and Bobby spotted the old silver locket winking in the hollow of her throat. And just for a moment, he could see the black-and-white missing-person’s photo of Dori Petracelli, the same locket gleaming around her neck.
The subject was playing them. He didn’t care about the locket. And if he wanted to abduct another girl, he was going to abduct another girl. That’s what these perverts did.
But maybe D.D. was right, too. Through her rash actions, she was buying them another night. The subject’s instructions had been explicit and personal. Obviously, the man had formed some kind of attachment to D.D. Enough that he wanted to see a former trophy from one of his victims, worn around the investigating sergeant’s throat.
Maybe he was already here now, perched up in another old tree, or even tucked inside the decaying brick building. Maybe he was peering down, peering out, watching D.D. pace, admiring her long, strong legs, her natural athletic grace.
She hit the crumbling edge of the building. Pivoted on her heel, started pacing the opposite way. Three thirty-one a.m.
Why 3:33 a.m. anyway? Why so precise? Did the subject like the symmetry of 333? Or was it one more way to yank their chains?
Lieutenant Trenton from Central Command suddenly sounded in Bobby’s ear. “We got activity. Perimeter breached, due west.”
D.D. still walking steadily, though she must have heard the news.
